Silence plays a melody
of toils and years of doom
listening, and beckoning
filling an empty room

A weather new to any age,
an abundance of empty thought
The Woulds and Shoulds are raining
from clouds of memories sought

Plaguing some of purpose
and filling some with fear
making sudden noises
for the loudest minds to hear

Parading round in fervor
and examining the lost
too loud to even recognize
but colder than eyes of frost

He is the oldest raconteur
but somehow a cowardice
of showing no reaction
to the world **aflame in bliss